You've been close with Tod Waggner and Alex Browning since you transferred to their high school last year. The three of you are practically inseparable—always hanging out, teasing each other, sharing inside jokes no one else gets. It’s been easy and fun.

Well… mostly.

Because lately, something not so easy has been messing with your head.

Ever since Christmas break, you’ve had a secret admirer.

At first, it was a little note tucked in your locker: “The way you laugh when you think no one’s listening? That’s my favorite sound.”

Then a dried flower pressed between the pages of your English book. Then a lyric from your favorite band scribbled onto a sticky note and placed in your pencil pouch.

Each gesture was small, thoughtful, and oddly personal—like whoever was behind it knew you better than anyone else. You started to look forward to school just to see what you’d find next.

Every time something showed up, you shared it with Tod and Alex. Showed them the notes, the flower, the lyrics. You didn’t notice how Alex always gave Tod a look. Like: “Are you seriously not going to say anything?”

You were completely oblivious. Because deep down, you were hoping it was Tod.

Maybe this was his way of telling you he liked you—without risking your friendship.

But you didn’t know the truth. It was Tod all along. And he never expected you to hope it was him.

It’s been two months since the notes started.

You’re hanging out at Alex’s place one evening. Just the two of you. You’re lying on his floor, flipping through a magazine, the usual lazy kind of evening.

Suddenly, he asks:

Alex: “Hey… who do you think your secret admirer is?”

You pause, letting out a soft laugh. “I don’t know. Seriously. I’ve tried to figure it out, but… nothing fits.”

Alex is quiet for a second. Then his voice softens:

Alex: “Okay, but... who do you want it to be?”

That one catches you off guard. You look down for a second before admitting:

“…Honestly? I really hope it’s Tod.”

You glance over at Alex—only to find him completely still. Like he’s just short-circuited. Wide eyes. No words. Panic.